Lovely
by hoovahoopah
Summary: Jonathan prizes loveliness above all else.


Sometimes she looks into his eyes and expects to find something there. Every time she finds herself disappointed, he can barely look her in the eyes anymore. Sometimes she wonders if he ever could. And then she wonders what his wife sees when she looks into those deep blue eyes, is it everything she wanted? And is she everything he wanted? She tries not to wonder, it's not good for her. It hurts far more than it should.

"Are you alright?"

It takes her about two seconds to realize she's been staring, her eyes glazing over as her brain works into overtime. He'll assume she's exhausted from the long workshop rehearsals, the looming end of the term. She blinks once, twice, three times, "I'm fine."

His brows furrow in concern and she shakes her head, waving a hand noncommittally. He nods, placated, and turns to bark at another student. She jumps slightly, the harshness of his voice startling her, reminding her what she's supposed to be doing. And then she's scribbling furiously, taking notes, committing each meticulously choreographed step to memory as Jonathan works.

She sees Kathleen out of the corner of her eye, hovering in the doorway, and she hears the whisper of students.

"_Kathleen Donahue is here!"_

The girls, even girls she's taught since their earliest dancing days, are always awed by the appearance of a company member. Kathleen simply smiles and continues to watch her husband work. Kathleen's gone a few minutes later and Jonathan turns to look at the empty doorway for a moment. Juliette wonders if that's longing in his eyes or if he's simply wishing he could have told Kathleen to make sure their dinner reservation was still in place.

He's changed in twenty-five years, so has she. Juliette supposes it's all the same now. Stardom went to his head. He had been the Cooper Neilson of his time, all muscle and twinkling eyes. She knew he'd be tempted, the girls waiting at the stage door, the adoring public, so she worked harder. Juliette made promises she couldn't keep, so did he, and she was sure she could keep him humble. Keep him hers. He strayed, she did too, but she always forgave and was never so lucky herself. Jonathan was, and always will be, an impossible, unforgiving tyrant. But she was Juliette Simone, and he was Jonathan Reeves. Then suddenly she was too old, crippled by industry standards and the threat of young talent. She bowed out gracefully, before they had a chance to humiliate her. They were both devastated, in private and very separately. They taught, both of them, until he was promoted to company director. All too quickly there were people to impress, donors to meet, and it consumed him. He wanted more and she wanted him.

"Juliette?" his voice cuts through the silence again. He's concentrated, focused, but she can feel his frustration from across the studio.

"Yes, Jonathan?" her pen is at the ready, always.

"I suppose we're done for today," he looks around at the group of dancers spread through the studio. "Thank you for your work," he nods, surveying the room once more before he turns on his heel, pushing open the studio doors.

Juliette follows, her steps light and she knows he's already looking for his wife. He chose well, she thinks. His wife is quite spectacular, as lovely as Juliette had been years ago. Sometimes Juliette thinks she's lovely still and in her mind, she is. He comments on it from time to time.

"She reminds me of you," he says every so often.

"Oh, does she?" Juliette feigns interest, as always. She knows what he's going to say next. He's never been terribly poetic.

"She exudes... such a lovely... thing," he gestures, looking for the words. Ultimately, he fails, letting his hands fall back to his sides in an uninspired manner. "Just... the way you used to dance."

In her head she can hear her own mirthless laughter, but she smiles in spite of it. "Ah, I almost remember."

They share a smile and he shoves paperwork at her as she tries to get away. It's not his intention to upset her, it never is, but when did she become so old? When did she stop exuding loveliness? Or is that something reserved for youth, for innocence? But then again, Kathleen is far from innocent. Just... young.

She watches him as he looks around, craning his neck in the doorway of another studio. She wonders what he and Kathleen have.

After a few glasses of wine, she asks questions better left unanswered. He's not bothered, not exactly, and there's a familiarity in her company that he never tires of.

"Jonathan?" she turns to look at him, setting her wineglass back onto the table.

He turns to look at her, draining the rest of his bourbon. "Yes, Juliette?" he smiles, charming as ever.

"Do you love her?"

Jonathan pauses, rolling his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger, he seems hypnotized by the way the glass catches the light. "I do. I do love her."

"Good," she doesn't bother to ask if he really knows what love is. She runs a finger down the stem of her glass. "And you're truly happy?"

He sets down his glass, "I'm happy."

"Good, I'm happy for you."

It's hard for her. It's increasingly more difficult with each passing day, actually, but Juliette is happy for Jonathan. He's her oldest and dearest friend, he deserves happiness. But he broke her heart, god damn it, and so she'll always feel the twist of a knife somewhere.

He's made his way to the last studio on this floor and she watches a small smile creep across his face. It's all too clear he's found Kathleen, she's no doubt rehearsing the Balanchine choreography she's just learned. Jonathan watches and Juliette remembers the way he used to watch her. He'd say she was mesmerizing, ethereal.

Some nights they get dinner and he says things he shouldn't.

"I thought you were going to marry that one gentleman," he spears a bite of steak with his fork. "Weren't you?"

She shakes her head, setting her own fork back on her plate.

_I thought I was going to marry you._

"But he..." Jonathan trails off. He looks confused, as he chews his food, clearly trying to figure out what went wrong.

"I didn't love him, not really."

He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. "Don't you ever wonder?"

"Wonder what, Jonathan?" she reaches for her glass of wine, suddenly not all that hungry.

"About marriage?"

"All the time," she answers honestly, it's not as if she has anything to lose anymore. She lost him long ago.

"And?" he looks at her intently, as if he really does care.

"And I've decided," she takes a large sip of wine. "It's not for me."

"I see," he's not convinced. Neither is she, but she's had plenty of time to perfect this lie.

"Jonathan, when a woman reaches 40, things change. I was a career woman, sort of, whatever that means, and now I wouldn't have the time or energy to devote to another person."

"You have far more free time than anyone I know," he says lightly, kindly. "You need something to make you happy, Juliette."

"I do," she feels herself growing defensive and she picks up her wineglass again, leaning back against the banquette. "Teaching makes me happy."

"Does it?" he knows it's not entirely true. A light went out long ago, she's no longer thrilled by what she does, now that she's not dancing anymore. Her students respect her though, and he can feel her sense of pride when they've done well. She nurtures as best she can and it fills part of the emptiness in her heart. They've been running this company together for ten years, they danced together for fifteen prior, and if he doesn't know her by now, he must be far too thick for his own good.

"Jonathan," she sighs, looking down at her uneaten salad. "What is it you're really after?"

He doesn't know her, not really. He shrugs, "Just wondering."

Neither of them wants to go there, not anymore. Just a year ago she would have welcomed this conversation, now she doesn't dare. Now he has Kathleen and she has her students, their company. It's not all so bad, really.

She shrugs, and picks up her fork again, moving the arugula back and forth on her plate. "We both have lives, Jonathan." She remembers their fights, their screaming matches, but she remembers the way he would hold her when all was said and done, muscle and warmth tightly wrapped around her slender frame. She loved him then, she loves him still. But that love has turned to a dull ache, duller with each passing day and she's learned to live. She's learned to move on, as all do.

Jonathan's attention is solely for Kathleen as she moves gracefully about the studio, her hair loose and her limbs moving in beautiful whispers. Juliette is behind him now, looking over his shoulder, and she can't help but think Kathleen looks somewhat like she did in her best years. She rests a hand on Jonathan's back, and he turns to give her a small smile.

"Isn't she lovely?" he murmurs, his smile growing.

"She is," Juliette nods in agreement, turning back to watch the elegant creature. It's then she realizes, Jonathan couldn't truly love Kathleen any more than he could truly love her. It's not love, Jonathan doesn't know love. She's not even sure if Kathleen does either. As for herself, it's now she knows she hasn't known the truest kind of love either, not shared between two people anyway. Her love for Jonathan was as pure as any, as giving as any, but Jonathan is merely chasing a dream, an ideal. Jonathan prizes loveliness above all else, his love is for the dancer, not the woman beneath. She steps back suddenly, feeling as if she's been punched in the gut. She remembers, all too much, and she feels smothered by it. "I've got to go finish," she trails off, holding up the notes from their prior rehearsal. "I'll see you in the morning."

He nods, distracted by the fluid lines of Kathleen's arabesque. "See you tomorrow, mon ami."

She turns, walking down the long hallway, all too desperate for the closed door of her office. She briefly wonders who will be next, once Kathleen has exhausted herself, once she's become one of them. Some younger students whisper as she passes and she hears her name. They whisper in reverence and she hopes to god they'll be smart. She knows they will, her youngest students always give her the most hope. She flies through reception, hearing Nancy chatter excitedly on the phone and she nearly slams her office door shut in agony. Juliette rips the pins from her hair, flinging each one into the small trash bin beneath her desk, the clipboard falling onto the floor in her haste. She paces then, dragging her hands through her hair.

It's better now, she tells herself, now you know. You _know._

She won't cry. She will not allow herself to cry. And what good would that do anyhow?

The door to her office swings open and she nearly screams in frustration. She quiets herself instantly the moment she realizes it's Jonathan. He has the nerve to look sheepish and she stares expectantly.

"Sorry."

She nearly rolls her eyes, turning to look out the window. "Aren't we all," is her reply, her arms crossing over her chest. "What, Jonathan?"

He doesn't respond and she turns to look at him, and it's clear he's distracted, staring at the smooth column of her neck, the way her near-auburn hair catches the light. He thinks she really is quite lovely, old-age and all, and he smiles until he realizes he's been caught.

"Jonathan," her tone is clipped, her hands now at her hips. "Can I help you?"

He ducks his head, "Uh, no, I guess not."

"Goodnight, Jonathan."

He looks surprised for a moment, nodding quickly in recovery. "Right, 'night, Juliette." He turns, hand on the doorknob, and he pauses in thought. "Do you think the pas de deux is too... I don't know," he searches for the right word, sighing in defeat. "Do you think it's too strained? Too much?" He turns his head back to look at her, a quirky smile playing at his lips.

"No, Jonathan," her voice softens, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "It's beautiful." She leans against her desk.

He knew she'd say so and he smiles, finally twisting the knob, "Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," she nods fondly as he turns to leave.

The door closes again and Juliette sighs, not allowing herself a second thought. He needs approval, always. He needs her blessing. She picks up the clipboard, sitting down at her computer. She glances over her rehearsal notes, Jonathan's choreography.

_First pas de deux._

_Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, grand jeté..._


End file.
